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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476709" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It Doesn't Matter Who I Am Now</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It doesn’t matter who I am now among these white dragons of energy<br>	sleeping all around me like hills of snow, longing for a heart <br>		that hasn’t been run through with a sword or fried <br>in the fires of its squandered passions. As I pass and passing is an art, <br>	the silent art of learning to prefer death, alone<br>		with the tongueless eloquence of a vast departure, as I pass <br>I keep a journal of faces in the windows of longing hung<br>	with sidereal curtains<br>		to elucidate the perfect isolation of my enlightened crimes. <br>I wrote myself off a cosmos ago; everything I do, a reflex of emptiness, <br>	even the shining a cry of torment out of space, an unnamed wound, <br>		a fountain-mouth that has sung itself away like the birds, <br>a leaf on articulated waters, an idiot moon that has sighed away its seas. <br>	Within me, night; within me, mysteries I keep as pets <br>		to amuse the children who come with their inquisitive eyes <br>and tortured dolls to learn if hope is the truest of fallacies. I read my own ashes, <br>	some slapstick sage, embarrassed by their innocence<br>		into an impromptu clarity, brick roses, embarrassed <br>to be anything at all. Out of the depths of my own inconsequence, the dark shale<br>	of my awareness of life, the indecipherable chronicle of my life<br>		that whispers strange fossils into the moment like curious doors <br>to the exhausted shrines of time, I laugh at myself as an antidote, <br>	a mystical serum, as I teach the unteachable by arraying <br>		the sacred fraudulence of my own unverified life. <br>I listen like the shadow of an assassin behind this eyeless translucence <br>	for the sound of approaching footsteps, the groan of worn stairs, <br>		the musical rain of keys, to startle the bones of their dragons <br>out of death, to cannibalize their lies and rob them of their radiant chains <br>	in a sudden assault of light. I sell them forged passports to nowhere<br>		to befriend their endless seeking like the wind<br>that erases their footprints home. I offer them everywhere<br>	as a room for the night, my heart the stone beneath their head. <br>		Sleep, gently, babies, in the arms of the dream <br>that covers your faraway hills like a summer sky freaked with legends. <br>	I am the unworthy nothing that loves you best; the ghost of the grain<br>		I break like bread and salt with stars <br>to entice you to the unsuspected windows of your own inner seeing.<br>	Rogue dragons wake in the blood, root gods thaw <br>		and send a shudder through the branch, spinal lightning<br>strikes the cold stone of the brain and the castle falls <br>	that ruled forbidden fields. Are you afraid of your freedom, your exile<br>		your ancient throne? Is the vastness too much, the solitude, the curse; <br>do you tremble before the armies of your own defeat, regretting the gods<br>	and delusions you overcame to arrive at this moment <br>		faced through tears by the mad messiah of suicide<br>who has come too late to witness your lonely redemption? <br>	Are you snarled in the void by nets you cast for golden fish, <br>		mesmerized by the points of emptiness that come<br>with pins in their mouths to trick you out in a wardrobe<br>	of designer straightjackets, your heart, the rock that killed the bird, <br>		your blood, an igneous delirium, drunk on the wine of razor-wire<br>consecrated by the grave in a ritual condemnation of a lonely prisoner<br>	eating spiders in solitaire? Here<br>		from the medicine bag of this black dwarf<br>prompted by dragons that elude you, I offer you <br>	a way out, your own slave-price, a hole<br>		more merciful than the knotted ankh of your noose, a road<br>beyond your walking, this jewel <br>	from under a pauper’s tongue. The crow returns <br>		to this ark of clowns, a continent in its beak. If you want to know<br>the clairvoyant insanity of the firefly that engendered this world <br>	out of the void, compelled by a silence of light<br>		in a beginning that never began and has never passed, now, still<br>the mother of itself; if you want to know that which creates and destroys you, <br>	the uncreate which sustains you in the reeling fever <br>		of all those strange emotions and hazardous thoughts<br>you call you and mistake for something, if you’re still secretly <br>	looking for water in the mirror, your face a dead divining rod, <br>		listen, though you don’t understand what I mean. Go.<br>The dragon dreams. Look under his eyelids. What does he dream? <br>	If you want to live forever. If you’re alive enough to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476709" data-title="It Doesn't Matter Who I Am Now de Patrick White" data-description="It doesn’t matter who I am now among these white dragons of energy
	sleeping all around me like hills of snow, longing for a heart 
		that hasn’t been run through with a sword or fried 
in the fires of its squandered passions. As I pass and pa..."></div>
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